


Like Air

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Human Castiel, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol was such a mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forget

You shouldn’t have gotten drunk. It was a mistake, and you knew it. You had a case the next day, but everyone was just so fucking down. And it’s just… there is enough, and then there is too much. So then, when it is too much, there is beer. There is wine. There is liquor, and you’re old enough now, you know better, but you mix them all. And God if everyone isn’t just so happy that it’s worth it.

It’s worth it to see Sam smile, to see Kevin collapse on the couch, curled into the fetal position, a whole bottle of wine in his arms. And Cas—Cas has never really been drunk before. Not really. Not like this. Not human and vulnerable, and he is so close to losing his cookies you’re paying close attention. You’ve taken away his whatever-he-called-it drink invention. It smelled delicious, and you know it must have tasted like air.

Cas is giggling. Cas is giggling and snorting which is making Sam giggle and snort back, and you, of course, have been laughing for forever. And then Cas stands, and you see the tick on his face—you know he’s gone, switched from bliss to agony, and he looks at you and you stand, and the pair of you are knee-deep in the restroom before Sam can slur, “Oh no, Cas…"

You hold his head, letting him rest its entire weight into your hand as he lets go of everything. He’s trying to say things, but you shush him, and eventually, after what feels like hours, he stills.

You know it’s deceitful—that’s what alcohol sickness does. You think you’re done vomiting your intestines, and then somehow you curl up again and it’s dry and awful. It is an endless time. So you sit with him. You fold up a washcloth and run it under cool water, dabbing it along his temple, around his quivering lips and his desperate eyes.

He cries. You know that’s coming too. Ultimate happiness for a short while. You should have stopped him drinking long ago.

He cries. He sobs. He vomits, and it’s everyone’s worst night with alcohol that they’re supposed to have so much younger in life so that their body can handle it better. You wonder about that for a moment; Castiel is, after all, brand new, but his form is not. He shakes and trembles and you hold his head again and again as he pleads for it to stop. And you know he’s not just talking about the vomiting.

And then it’s done. For the twentieth time it’s done, but you know this time it really is. You know its over because he’s half asleep on the rim of the toilet, and he’s sweating and shivering, and you need to move him now. So you lift under his shoulders, gently, making him stand, hobbling him to his bedroom as carefully as you can. You’re almost carrying him, he’s so weak. He is clinging to you, and his lips are against your neck. He’s kissing your neck and sobbing into it and thanking you.

You’re trying not to think about how that feels. Trying not to feel dizzy under his weight, under the brush of his lips ever so slightly over your skin. You make it to the bedroom.

You lay him down, on his side, and part to get him water. You return, rub his back, make him sit up slightly to sip, then lower him down again, nudging the trash can closer to the side of the bed and waiting for it to start again. You pray that it doesn’t. And then you remember he could once hear you pray. And your heart seizes.

You stay with him. And you listen to his mumbles, to his sleepy, exhausted, terrified mumbles. He tells you he loves you. You don’t listen to that. You don’t listen because it’s not true, because he’s drunk. He tells you again and again, his words growing softer, and then he is gone.

You don’t leave him. You stare at his sleeping form all night. You are so scared he’s not gonna wake up. You are so scared that you hurt him. You’re so scared he’ll never be the same Castiel he once was.

Alcohol was such a mistake.


	2. Celebrate

Cas is reticent to drink again. And that makes sense, of course, considering what happened last time. But tonight isn’t like that—tonight, you’re celebrating. Things are not looking down, they are looking up. For once, and probably only for a very brief time, things are going right. Kevin is smiling, Sam is cured, and you have been able to hold onto this moment, this little section of family, longer than you ever dared dream. You just got home from solving the best case, wherein nobody but some asshole ghost bit the dust, and you’re marveling that you’re thinking of this place as  _home_. It’s home, and you’re not flinching as though you’ve marred it or marked it with the black spot.

So you get a case of beers. You get two, three, four cases of beers, because there are four brilliant people here, who deserve to take the night off, put their feet up, and celebrate.

Castiel takes some convincing. Sam is happily settled into his second beer while Kevin slowly nurses his first, and you watch Cas stare with distrust at the six-pack. You’ve never tried this brand before—it’s local—but it’s delicious. So you pat his shoulder, knit your fingers around his arm, and tell him, assure him, you’ll make sure it goes well this time. That it won’t be like last time, because, “Well," you say, “Because you’ve learned."

Castiel looks at you.

"I’ll take care of you, I promise."

And he smiles, very softly, very gently. Because he knows you will—you did last time, of course, very willingly. So he accepts the beer you hand him, and he takes a slow sip.

One beer, one water. You make sure he alternates. You make sure he eats. And eventually, around midnight, he is at that stage of perfectly drunk, perfectly content, perfectly smiley and happy and in control.

You, on the other hand, are not.

You moved on from beer to liquor, which was stupid. But Sam bought ginger beer, and it had been forever since you’d had a moscow mule, so you make one, two… four. Maybe five? You’ve had water of course, you’re not in your twenties anymore. But the room is spinning way too much, and your limbs feel way too heavy.

You haven’t been this drunk in awhile—and you remember very clearly the last time you were. The need to escape. The year of your life where everyone left you. Once again, everyone, everyone left you. Castiel left you. Bobby left you. The year before that had ripped you asunder and suddenly the only thing remaining, to the world you had dared open up to and embrace, was Sam. If you hadn’t had Sam… you don’t think about that. So instead of mourning, you drank. You drank often, you drank too much—and it was not enough.

You’ve gotten better, of course. Because the need to not feel isn’t as strong anymore. Heck, you almost  _like_  feeling. Like now. Right now, you are liking so much about everything. It’s not gonna last. But fuck it: you’re happy.

Cas is at your side. He’s giggling, and he has the best fucking giggle you have ever heard. You thought Sam had that title, because drunk Sam is pretty awesome, but drunk, giggly Cas? That does something completely different to you. His eyes are all scrunched up and your heart starts to pound. Your fingers tingle and something very hot and heavy is sitting in your gut. He giggles again, and you watch him. And you’re drunk, so you’re completely unaware of how shamelessly you look at him.

Kevin went to bed early, determined to get a head start before heading out to see Garth tomorrow. And now Sam is leaving as well, thumping you on the stomach as he goes, making you cough and roll to the floor. He ruffles Cas’s hair, and then he’s gone.

Castiel puts his beer down on the coffee table. You’re writhing in mock pain on the ground and Cas is laughing at you. He crawls down from the couch to you, still smiling, trying to stop himself from smiling and failing. You sit up, and then he falls forward, his head catching at your thigh.

"You’re drunk," you grin.

"Not as drunk as you," Cas rotates around and faces you, pointing up and making contact with your nose. Shit, that was cute.

"You ok with drinking now?"

Castiel smiles and nods, laying down on his back as you stretch out your legs. His head is still on your thigh and he’s not moving it; you don’t want him to. “We’ll see how tomorrow is."

Your mouth is open because you fully intend to say something, but your hands start moving, and you swear you’re not in control of them. You reach out and touch his hair. You reach out and put a hand on his chest. You touch him, because he’s still here. After all this time, this time as a human, this time out looking for his grace, he is still here. You pet him. Your fingers are weaving through each strand of his hair, and you tilt your head just to look at him, to take him in, to watch your hands work.

"Dean…"

He’s looking at you.

You shouldn’t have drank so much. You feel sick, and you know it’s not because of the liquor. It’s something else entirely. You remember the feel of Castiel’s lips on your neck that night, that night months ago now. You remember the things he was saying, how sad he was, how grateful he was to have you. You remember the way he looked at you before that. Eyes full of something so great it was terrifying.

He’s looking at you that way now.

You bend down. You shouldn’t bend down. You do. But it’s ok, because he leans up.

You meet in the middle.

It’s awkward as hell because these positions sure aren’t comfortable, but you hardly mind with his mouth touching yours. You’re kissing him. This is insane. Why are you kissing him. You are so drunk—you’re so drunk you need to stop this. Stop kissing him.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t stop kissing you.

He fixes the only real problem as he straightens up and—dear God—he straddles you. Castiel is fucking spread out over your hips and sitting on your thighs and his lips are still touching your lips. His mouth is opening your mouth—or maybe you opened his mouth—but that’s his tongue and your tongue, meeting for the first time and shaking hands.

This is a dream. That’s how drunk you are: this is a dream and you’re gonna wake up… Nope, you’re not waking up.

And yet, you very much  _are_.

Your hands move on his back, on his arms, his ass, his chest. You find his face and paint it with your fingers, raking through his hair. You angle your head for more space, more him, more everything. More. You practically say it, pulling him in as close as he can be. God, but he can kiss—he is stubbly and big and not a woman at all—but he can kiss you and moan and purr over you and all you want is him. All you’ve ever wanted is him. He’s not just something you need, he’s something you have to have. He’s fucking air. He is like air.

You pull back. Your brain has settled on something, and your tongue has decided you need to say it. “I love you."

Oh.

No, no, that’s—

You open your eyes. You drop your hands, and stare wide-eyed somewhere off to the distance. What the hell is wrong with you? And why won’t he get off your hips, your legs—you’re trying to run but he won’t budge, he’s just sitting there and he’s so fucking heavy—

Castiel grabs your hands. He grabs your shoulders, then he grabs your face. He stills you, and you respond, because he wants you to look at him.

"And I love you."

You’re not sure if that’s what you even wanted to hear—and what on earth you should do with that information—but you know that your chest just exploded so you kiss him again, and he kisses you again: basically, you kiss, and you do not stop. Not for the changing of the hour, or the rising of the sun. His chest lays against your chest and you fall asleep on the couch. You do not let go.

Alcohol was such a brilliant idea.


End file.
